


Down That Road

by glorious_spoon



Category: Leverage
Genre: Caretaking, Cooking, Developing Relationship, Multi, Polyamory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-10
Updated: 2020-07-10
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:14:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25175206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glorious_spoon/pseuds/glorious_spoon
Summary: The progression of a relationship in three meals.(Or: two times Eliot cooks for Parker and Hardison, and one time they cook for him.)
Relationships: Alec Hardison/Parker/Eliot Spencer
Comments: 33
Kudos: 122
Collections: Eat Drink and Make Merry 2020





	Down That Road

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CityStardust](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CityStardust/gifts).



1\. The Nigerian Job

Alec is up to his metaphorical eyeballs in global stocks when he hears the front door lock click. He doesn’t startle at the noise; his security pinged him three minutes ago when Spencer keyed in his code at the front door, and then again at the penthouse elevator. He does glance up in time to see Spencer push the door open with his elbow, hands occupied with several reusable grocery bags.

“Little help here?”

“I am _busy_ ,” Alec informs him. “Those had better not be full of explosives.”

“Why the hell would they be full of explosives?”

“Why do punchy angry men like yourself do anything?” Alec retorts, turning back to the Shanghai stock exchange. “I don’t know. But if my kitchen blows up, you and I will be having words. Words which you will not enjoy.”

Spencer snorts expressively as he makes his way through the darkened penthouse. Nate and Sophie have gone off together, Alec neither knows nor wants to know where; Parker is sacked out on the couch with a Taser clutched in one hand. Her blonde hair is loose across her face and ruffling as she snores. Alec can’t decide if it’s adorable or terrifying, although he’s leaning toward both _._

Spencer is just terrifying. Fortunately, when he sets the bags down on the counter and starts pulling things out, it all just looks like groceries, no bomb-building materials in sight unless he’s planning on constructing an IED out of celery sticks and organic vinegar. Which does, to be fair, seem like the sort of thing a man like Eliot Spencer might do.

Alec goes back to work. He’s not used to working with the background hum and clatter of other people in his space, but it’s… nice, actually. He could get used to this.

 _One show only, no encore,_ he tells himself firmly. A week from now, he’s never gonna see any of these people again. There’s no sense in getting too attached.

It’s some time later when a shadow looms behind him, reflected in his screens; Alec barely manages to control his flinch when Spencer leans around him. His approach was completely silent.

“What the _hell_ , man,” Alec says, spinning in his chair. He thumps his chest, trying to get his heart rate under control, as Spencer gives him an unimpressed look and deposits a plate on his desk. “What is this?”

“What’s it look like?” Spencer retorts.

What it looks like is a sandwich. Layers of meat and cheese and what looks like thin-sliced apple and a couple of different types of greens on toasted rye bread, cut diagonally and plated like something you’d get at a high-end cafe. Alec prods it with the tip of his finger. “Where did this come from?”

Spencer rolls his eyes, huffs loudly, and retreats without answering. Alec spins in his chair in time to see him deposit another plate on the coffee table in front of Parker. He doesn’t shake her awake, which is probably wise given the Taser, but he rattles the plate so that the porcelain clinks, and a moment later she yawns, stretches, wrinkles her nose adorably, and pulls herself upright to peer at the sandwich with more or less the same baffled expression that Alec can feel on his own face. Eliot heads back into the kitchen and starts putting things away without a word to either of them.

“Huh,” Alec says under his breath. There’s a warm feeling that he doesn’t want to define taking up residence somewhere in the vicinity of his ribcage. He picks up the sandwich and takes a bite, and only then notices that he’s starving. Which makes sense, actually. His last meal was a handful of gummy frogs, and that was--he glances at his monitor--okay, yeah, four hours ago. Maybe it’s just as well that Spencer seems unexpectedly inclined to take some time off of being a terrifying death ninja to act as a nursemaid.

He finishes the whole thing. Alec isn’t exactly a connoisseur of sandwiches, but he thinks it’s pretty damn good. Maybe it’s the hunger. Maybe it’s that the last person who brought him a sandwich with that kind of exasperated judgemental look when he’d spent too long hunched over his screens was Nana, a thought that leaves him with a little pinch in his heart like a lingering bruise.

Maybe it’s just a damn good sandwich.

When he’s done, he unfolds out of his chair, stretching the kinks out of his back. Parker is awake, sitting cross-legged on the couch and watching suspiciously as he approaches.

“Hey,” Alec offers, with his best smile.

She cocks her head slightly and smiles back at him. There’s something cautious about it, almost. Experimental, like she’s not quite sure how a smile is supposed to work when she’s not using it on the job. She doesn’t answer, but she also doesn’t tase him when he reaches down to grab her empty plate, which must count for something.

Spencer is still at the sink, rinsing a head of lettuce with the sprayer. The counter is mostly clean, but when Alec peeks inside the fridge, there’s more food in there than he’s ever seen.

“You didn’t dump out my orange soda, did you?” he asks. “Because I came to say thank you, but I’m gonna have to take that back if you did.”

“It’s in the back,” Spencer retorts, and when Alec leans in farther he sees the half-pack of bottles stashed behind a large Tupperware container of something green. Salad, maybe. The last time Alec had a salad in this fridge, it was when he ordered takeout from Seabirds Kitchen and promptly left the country for three weeks. What he found when he got back was… definitely not salad. Or edible. This unexpected influx of health food is a little overwhelming, but at least his soda is secure.

“Okay,” he says, appeased, and closes the door. “In that case, thank you. These are for the dishwasher.”

“Hm.” Spencer leans aside to let him pull it open and set the plates in. Alec closes the door and leans against the counter.

“So, I guess I owe you an apology.”

“What for?”

“Uh, for putting a gun in your face the other day?”

Spencer snorts and glances up at him. His eyes are a startling shade of blue, this close. He’s wearing a sleeveless shirt that leaves his muscular arms bare. He smells really good, Alec observes, with a sinking feeling.

So far, he’s been doing pretty damn badly at treating this as a walkaway.

“Don’t worry about it,” Spencer says.

“Don’t _worry_ about it?”

“Happens all the time.” Spencer slants him an unreadable glance. “Usually, they’re loaded.”

“Oh, what, you could tell that just by looking.”

“Gun was too light. I could tell from how you were holding it. Besides, I coulda taken it away from you anytime I had to.”

Alec huffs, but considering that little show at Pierson Aviation, he doesn’t doubt it. “Could have had one in the chamber.”

“Coulda.” Spencer is smiling a little now, and it is just… entirely too charming. “But you didn’t.”

“Oh, and you know that how?”

“You’re not the type. Now, Parker…” he nods over Alec’s shoulder, and Alec completely fails to keep from jumping as Parker moves up silently alongside him. Alec is surrounded by beautiful ninjas. It’s not the worst thing that’s happened to him in his life of crime.

“I would have shot you,” Parker agrees. Then she adds, contemplatively, “I’m glad I didn’t, though.”

Spencer chuckles like that’s funny instead of terrifying. Alec shakes his head.

“Y’all are crazy,” he says, but he finds that he’s smiling.

* * *

2\. The Long Way Down Job

“Here,” Eliot says, pressing something into her hands as he passes. Parker takes it automatically. He squeezes her shoulder briefly, then lets go; all she can see of his face is blue eyes and the wind-chapped skin around them, but she thinks he might be smiling. The thing he gave her is a thermos, the heavy-duty vacuum-sealed kind that could keep something warm for a day or more even in this weather, but before she can ask about it he’s gone, stomping over to help Hardison load up the back of the van.

“Give me the other end before you put yourself in traction,” he growls, and Hardison relinquishes the unwieldy box he’s trying to heave up into the back of the van with nothing more than an eyeroll.

“Anybody ever tell you you got a bossy streak?”

“Anybody ever tell you how easy you can throw your back out if you don’t lift with your legs?”

“I’m touched that you care.”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself.”

Hardison isn’t wearing a scarf, so she can see the sudden bright smile that Eliot, ducking down, misses. It’s sweet and fond in the same way it is when he looks at her. She files that away for later consideration as she pulls one glove off with her teeth, tasting the crunch of ice and salt. Sophie and Nate are already gone; they’ll meet up on the flight back to Boston, and for now it’s just her and Eliot and Hardison, and the tall mountain looming overhead as they break down their operation. She should probably go and help them, but instead she unscrews the cap of the thermos and sniffs the contents. She expects coffee, or possibly soup, but instead the rich smell of chocolate rises up to her nose, cutting through the sharp cold.

When she sips from it, she’s not surprised to find it creamy and smooth and bittersweet with a lingering aftertaste of spices that definitely didn’t come from the chow tent’s powdered hot chocolate supply. She takes another, longer drink, and looks up to see Eliot peering back at her. She lifts her gloved hand to give him a thumbs-up, and his eyes crinkle so much that she knows he must be smiling.

The taste of chocolate lingers on her tongue as she follows them into the van and settles in the back next to Hardison, Eliot sliding into the driver’s seat without discussion or protest even though it’s nearly an hour’s drive to the airport and she knows he must be crashing. She can feel the beginnings of it herself, a bone-deep exhausted shudder that once upon a time would have had her crawling away to the nearest secure bolt-hole she could find.

Hardison lifts an arm slightly, inviting, and smiles when she tucks herself against his side. The van’s heater is running full-blast, but the warmth of his body, even through all their layers of clothes, feels like it’s melting something inside of her. It’s a good feeling, and it’s terrifying. She doesn’t pull away.

“You all right?” Hardison asks, soft and just for her, as Eliot spins the van around and they start jolting down the slushy road at the base of the mountain.

“Yeah,” Parker says, and then, “here. You can have some too.”

“Thanks,” he says, taking it from her. She watches him drink, watches the lines of his profile backlit against the fading sunset, the absurd fluff trimming his hood that’s half-sliding off his head, his smile as he hands it back. “That's really good. Eliot, huh?”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah,” Hardison echoes. He hesitates. There’s a catch in his breath like he’s thinking about saying more, but then he shakes his head and stays silent. Parker wishes he would speak. There’s something jittering around inside her, slamming off of her edges and making her antsy even as tired as she is, but she has no idea how to articulate it, even to herself. Hardison has always been better at that. At people. Feelings.

The van bumps when it hits the lip of asphalt on the main road, then accelerates into the gathering dusk. She can see the side of Eliot’s cheek, his messy hair, the way his fingers rattle on the wheel and then still. When she glances at Hardison, he’s looking at Eliot too, still wearing a thoughtful expression. He takes another drink from the thermos, then hands it back to her, and Parker comes to an abrupt decision. She climbs over Hardison’s lap to stand up, and he steadies her with a warm hand on the small of her back when the van sways. She doesn’t really need it, but it’s--nice, all the same.

He doesn’t ask what she’s doing as she makes her way up to the front, where Eliot is squinting irritably at the road.

“You should be wearing your seatbelt,” he says, without looking at her.

Parker rolls her eyes and holds the thermos out. “Here. You should probably have some too.”

“I made it for you and Hardison.”

“Take the hot chocolate, or I’m going to dump it on you.”

He huffs laughter, but he takes the hot chocolate, upcaps it one-handed and drinks from it without looking away from the road. Parker grips the back of the other seat and thinks about Eliot hugging Hardison at the base of the mountain, about him in that cave, gripping her shoulders and talking her down. About doing the right thing, and what that means.

Before she can think of a way to put any of that into words, though, Eliot hands the thermos back to her. “Seriously, go sit down. Put a seatbelt on. Please.”

Parker goes. Hardison moves over to let her settle next to him, and she drinks from the thermos and hands it to him, watches him drink, and thinks about the fact that her lips and Eliot’s lips were in the exact same place that his are now. She thinks that the shape of all this is finally starting to become clear in her mind.

* * *

3\. The Rundown Job

Eliot doesn’t have any real memory of how he gets back to Portland. He’s losing time like dropped stitches, like curds separating and leaving only buttermilk behind, thin and bitter—

He has a memory of Parker helping him into a clean shirt, Hardison holding him up while she tugged his jeans off with the kind of unembarrassed matter-of-factness that only Parker could manage. There’s a long, empty spot in between there and the plane: bright lights overhead, a concerned stranger asking if he’s okay and Hardison’s smooth, quick voice intervening before Eliot had to find words, _“So sorry, I am just_ so _sorry, ma’am, he gets a little nervous flying, you know, and those mojitos at the airport bar are pretty strong--better be for what they charge, am I right or am I right? Oh, don’t worry about the suitcase, I got it. Thank you so much.”_

Parker’s hand reaching across to fasten his seatbelt. Hardison stretching to stow the carry-on, his shirt pulling up to show a line of smooth brown skin a few inches from Eliot’s eyes. The overhead lights reflecting on Parker’s hair and the rumble as the plane lifted off.

He’s escaped out of worse situations in worse condition than this. That’s not what’s new about it. What’s new is Hardison lifting his bag out of his hands, Parker’s arm around his waist and her shoulder bracing him, the way they both keep talking to him, a soothing, steady patter of words to let him know that he’s not alone. That he’s safe here. That he can let himself be taken care of.

It’s well past midnight when they get back to the brewpub. Eliot lets them deposit him in one of the padded booth benches and vanish into the back room together. There’s clattering coming from the kitchen, which would normally be his cue to stomp in there and put a stop to whatever they’re up to, but he is just…

Just way too damn tired right now. His leg is starting to throb, a dull ache emerging from under the painkillers. It’ll be a good couple of weeks before he’s back to fighting trim, and he’s damn lucky--he knows he’s lucky--that it wasn’t worse. He puts his head back against the seat and considers where his wallet might have got to. His apartment isn’t that far from here, but he’s a goddamn millionaire; he can afford to get a cab for a change. His car is parked around back, but there’s a better than seventy percent chance that if he tries to drive right now he’ll end up wrapping it around a light pole.

Before he can make up his mind to get up and stumble back home, or at least find out what the hell the two of them did with his wallet, there are footsteps emerging from the kitchen, along with an unexpected whiff of something that smells remarkably like food. His stomach lurches, a stab of nausea quickly overwhelmed by hunger. He hasn’t actually eaten since… he doesn’t know. He’s not even completely sure what day it is, or what time of day other than _dark._ They’ve crossed a couple of timezones in the past few hours. That wouldn’t normally be enough to throw him, but maybe he’s starting to slip in his old age.

Maybe he trusts Parker and Hardison enough to let himself slip, and that thought is about twenty times more terrifying.

The footsteps stop well short of the table. There’s a clink of metal on porcelain, and then Parker says, in a carrying whisper, “Is he asleep? He looks like he’s asleep. Or unconscious.”

“I knew we should have made him go to the hospital,” Hardison says. It’s mostly annoyed, but there’s an edge of concern there that sends something dangerously warm twisting through Eliot.

Without opening his eyes, he says, “I’m awake.”

“Oh, good,” Hardison says, on a loud sigh.

“We made you food,” Parker adds brightly. There’s a huffing sound, and she says, “Okay, Hardison made you food. I watched. And poured juice.”

“Which you really look like you could use, after all that blood you lost. You know they give you cookies and shit if you donate, right?”

“This isn’t the first time I’ve been shot,” Eliot says.

“Believe me, I am aware of that. Humor us, would you?”

“Fine,” Eliot sighs, and opens his eyes as they approach. Hardison leans across the table to set a plate down in front of him. Eliot blinks at it. He was half-expecting one of Parker’s horrible frosted sugar concoctions, or something scorched into oblivion, but instead it’s just eggs and toast. Fluffy scrambled eggs, and jam on the toast. Strawberry, from the looks of it.

“Look, I know it’s not fancy,” Hardison says, sinking into the seat beside him as Parker sets down a tall glass of orange juice and perches on his other side. “Sorry, man. My talents lie in areas other than gourmet cooking. This is like the only thing I know how to make other than Hot Pockets.”

“It’s really good,” Parker says, sounding defensive. Out of the corner of his eye, Eliot sees Hardison reach across the table to squeeze her hand. “What? It is. He should eat it. And then come to bed.”

“Babe,” Hardison says quietly. “I don’t know if now is the time.”

“We almost died today. Eliot almost died today.”

“But we didn’t. Right? We didn’t. We’re all okay. So maybe Eliot should get some food in him and we should all take a nap--right, Eliot? You with me?”

Eliot grunts. That warm feeling is starting to grow roots. To distract himself, he picks up the fork and takes a bite. The eggs are plain but surprisingly good: fluffy and rich, like someone taught Hardison to whisk them with milk or cream instead of water. A few bites in and his stomach wakes up and decides that he’s ravenous.

He practically inhales his meal, and only emerges when Parker pushes the orange juice toward him. “Drink that.”

“She’s bossy when she’s worried,” Hardison says, somewhat apologetically.

“Just her?” Eliot asks, and drinks to keep himself from saying more.

“It was good, right?” Parker says seriously. Hardison lets out a breath of laughter and shakes his head a little, and Eliot reaches out unthinking to touch the side of his face, his unshaven jaw, the warm nape of his neck: a gentler echo of how he held Hardison outside the van in DC too many hours ago to count. Hardison blinks a couple of times, then looks Eliot in the face, and the thing is--the thing is, Eliot knows what this is. He’s known for a while.

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, it was good. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Hardison says, with a faint, sweet curl to his mouth. With an effort, Eliot lets his hand drop. Parker makes a small sound, and Hardison glances at her, then shakes his head, his smile growing. “Alright, fine, I guess we’re doing this now.”

“We are, huh?” Eliot says.

“Yeah,” Hardison retorts, “we are,” and then he leans across to kiss Eliot on the mouth, quick and easy, like they’ve been doing this since forever.

“See, was that really that hard?” Parker says, while Eliot is still blinking, and then she’s kissing him too. It’s a little firmer, more forceful than Hardison’s, and it lasts long enough that Eliot finally manages to get with it enough to kiss her back before she pulls away. He stares between them. Parker is beaming. There’s an edge of a smile on Hardison’s face, but he looks nervous enough that Eliot leans forward to kiss him again, properly this time. Parker’s hand lands on his arm, strokes back into his hair, and then slips down to his uninjured shoulder as he pulls back.

“We gonna have a conversation about this?” Hardison asks, only slightly breathless.

“Do we need to?” Eliot asks, and he’s rewarded by the bright flash of Hardison’s grin.

“No, I guess we don’t. Are you coming to bed, or not?”

“Not for sex,” Parker adds bluntly. Hardison makes a face somewhere between appalled and delighted, and she adds, “Not _tonight_ , anyway. Eliot got shot. Just to sleep.”

“It’s a big bed,” Hardison adds.

“Jesus Christ,” Eliot sighs. He finds that he’s smiling, and when they both reach out at the same time to pull him up, he takes their hands. “Yeah, fine. I’m coming.”


End file.
